My Prey
by TheConsultingAngel
Summary: Sebastian Moran was an Afghan Military Sniper, but after being discharged, he looks for a means to live. He finds he's very talented in the art of killing people (go figure), and soon rises as one of the best hit-men money can buy. It isn't long before someone sends him on a quest to kill the quickly-rising, self-proclaimed 'consulting criminal', Jim Moriarty. Who will win?
1. Tiger

Rich swirls of scarlet and crimson flew down the drain. Quickly, Colonel Sebastian Moran snapped a photo, immediately sending it to his employer to get the second half of his pay. Sebastian Moran was known in many circles as 'The Tiger' or, more simply, 'Tiger'. The nickname had started Afghanistan, when his 'adventurous' personality got the best of him. Or, more accurately, when his bloodlust did. Their was a giant tiger, it had started eating the people around their base, and they had him on standby because he got grazed by a bullet. Oh no, not shot, _grazed_. It was bullshit. So, instead of lying back and doing crap-knows-what like the rest of the 'shot-down' calvary, he went on a, how do you say, hunting trip. Came back with the monstrosities' pelt draped over his shoulders. Well, after he drug the beast into town, selling it's meat and everything. Using the money to supply himself with cigarettes and random weapons he thought looked cool. Sebastian had a very simple way of thinking; get your job, smoke a cigarette, kill the target, repeat. It was good... While he was in the military, anyways. Being a sniper had been great for that while, but eventually his shot had become so precise that it became boring. Almost a chore, if you asked him. Soon after the tiger incident, they allowed him back on missions. It wasn't long after that that he got discharged. They said he'd become too trigger happy, remorseless. He would kill the target, and anyone who was within five feet of said target. Couldn't have witnesses, as he said.

His phone rang, playing the small ringing tone. Pressing the green button, he lifted it so he could hear the person on the other end.

"You did good. Full payment will be sent shortly." A small click told him the call was over, and he pulled up his bank records on his phone as he exited the penthouse. It was a nice place, but too much white for his _personal_ taste. He prefered the colour red. Not because that's the colour of blood, don't be so gruesome. He liked it for a much deeper reason, even if he himself couldn't place it. His childhood home. A small cabin surrounded by rows and rows of flowers in the garden. The façade always hid what that bastard he had to call 'father' did. The happy front with splatters of violets, blues, and a bit of black covered up the splashes of the same colours on his own skin. The same yellow from the sunflowers echoing the pale discoloration from when his parents forgot to feed him for a few days, or take let him go outside. The blossoms of irises, lavender, the occasional black dahlia sprouting the same as the bruises on his skin, only unhidden. There were pink ones like the recently warmed flesh from where he was forced into a too hot bathtub. White from skin indentations and bergamot squaw. All colours, shapes, and sizes of flowers. But no red. His mother would constantly rotate the flowers, but not once were there any red. He could never remember having any red marks, either. Sure, there were pinks and oranges, but never quite red. It was a safe colour, one that always brought good feelings and hope. Not for his victims, tough. There was no hope in the world for them.

The other two quid appeared in his account as he got in his car. Tossing the phone in it's black case on the tawny seat next to him. Today had been a good day, great even. His target had been a little, well, gory. He was an abusive bastard, beat his wife and child, and it was his turn to be beat... And dismembered, yes, but Sebastian had no doubt 'Mr. Halty' had it coming. His phone rang again, and with a slight grown, he picked it up from the seat next to him, and answered it.

"What?" He snapped. Not always a good idea to snap at the big boss, but he was sick of getting a call every twelve minutes. Holding the phone with his shoulder, he started the car, before driving off.

"Relax, we gotta new assignment for ya. Get down to headquarters, this is a big payday. Might just make your name!" In all honesty, Sebastian couldn't care less about making a name or how big the payday is, he was just enraptured to be getting a new job. It always seemed like they were too few and far between, never had one after another like this, before. He sometimes wished they'd either give him something else to do between kills, or let him freelance a bit. It was annoying actually.

"Kay, be there in ten." This, should be fun.


	2. Spider

Oh, he was good. The best, even. Everyone in the underground knew the name Moriarty, and most of those who were having success, owed it to him. He was a genius on exponential levels, and boy, did he know it. If you needed the best way to forge a masterpiece, or start a cartel, he was the man to go to. Problem was, he was picky. He had started with murders, but when that had become boring, he moved on to forgery, robbing, branched out a little in political terrorism, bombings, terrorism (the type where hundreds die), and even a little dealing in assassins. His web wasn't large, per say, but everyone knew it was growing. And it was growing fast. Pretty soon, if they weren't careful, James Moriarty would own everything to do with organized crime. Probably crime in general. He just sat in his office, fingers creating small patterns of beats on the stained wood, it's dark, glossy surface reflecting his bored gaze. A job. That's what he needed. Some insignificant ant's problem that needs to be solved. But even that got bland, eventually. Every other threat to the major networks got a hit placed on them, but not him? Sometimes Jim wondered if he wasn't threatening enough. Which only served to fuel his anger, making it flare to extraordinary amounts. He slouched back into his desk chair, looking over boring file after ordinary job. Some may satisfy him while he's bored, but they wouldn't last long. He contemplated the thought of going to a bar or club, just to find something, or rather, _someone_ to entertain him for the evening. "Moriarty, sir, the Galeo Cartel would like to speak with you about expansion, and your advice. They're willing to pay handsomely." Jim wanted to scream. Another cartel job? What was wrong with these idiots? Hustle your drugs, find a doctor willing to slip you some signed prescription papers for a small fee. Then, all you had to do, was scuttle about and sell your damn drugs for a large profit. That was fucking it. Groaning he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell them I'll consider it, and if they want my help, to send a fucking file, like everyone else." The authority in his voice never ceased to cause people to scurry off and do their duties. He was getting a headache, boredom thoroughly setting into his self. He considered possibly renting some entertainment for the evening. It was a lot better than listening to some idiots whine, right? But renting was so _cliché,_ so _**boring**_. Bar, maybe? No, no, too many ordinary people. He'd have to try and divest himself of his boredom through these simple little jobs. Huffing out his annoyance, he began looking through some of the files, when one caught his eye. Lucro Family. They owned one of the biggest families in the underground, dealing mostly in drugs and assassinations. They were arguably the biggest crime network out there, and it had been seen they take out anyone they find to be a nuisance or threat to their empire... They didn't need help, most certainly not _his_ help. So, what was their play? "Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. This will do nicely... Very nicely." A sick grin spread to his face as he read the total bull they put in their request. Something about branching out in human trafficking. Which, he knew they'd never do. Something to do with one of their bosses having bad history, which was stupid, but it worked in Moriarty's favor this time. There was only one possible explanation, and he had been longing for it's arrival. They were going to kill him. Well, try to at least. Either way, this was guaranteed to relieve this painful withering of his mind. He just needed to figure out who'd they have do it... He knew their top three killers, sorry _assassins,_ were Doctor Andrew Carthel, Luis Vanhidden, and Colonel Sebastian Moran. They dealt with all the big jobs, and almost always handled high-profile jobs. Dr. Carthel was experienced in drugs, almost always handled cases with faked overdoses. The police never knew any better, but it was clear to anyone in their line of business. He was typically used for cartel operators and the like, so he was a very unlikely choice, and a rather stupid one. Luis Vanhidden dealt mainly in bombings made to look like accidents. Car bombs, and such. They'd have to send one of their actual operation heads to meet him, thereby risking one of their own players with this choice, so he was out. That left Jim's favorite. The Tiger. Trained in multiple forms of martial arts and 'enhanced interrogation' techniques, Colonel Sebastian Moran was nearly two meters, and nearly 145 kilos. He had experience in multiple firearms' usage, and was fairly skilled in poisonings, too. The blonde man had been a sniper in the British military, and had quickly climbed ranks, thanks to both his talent and skill. Oh, yes. This was going to be fun. A lot of fun. Jim may even have to send the Lucro Family a fruit basket! 


End file.
